


The Summer Exhibition

by QSoC



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud, The Bartimaeus Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:02:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QSoC/pseuds/QSoC
Summary: I got annoyed that Bartimaeus never visits Somerset House. So I wrote it.





	The Summer Exhibition

The low evening sun filtered through the windows, casting beams of light that warmed the thickly varnished floors and threw dramatic shadows across the faces of the London elite. Black satin and embroidered silk rustled, crisp white shirt sleeves rolled halfway as the evening cooled but the drinks flowed. Around us, old masters and dynamic modernists preened under the attention of the educated and the opinionated, conversation sparkling only as much as the gold gilt frames disguising base wood beneath. Social climbers mingled with Academicians, trying to prove their worth based on surface interpretation of a brushstroke, a tactfully placed symbol. I wasn't listening. Technically I was on duty, but my master had failed to warn me of just exactly how overwhelming the tedium of artistic decorum would be - instead I pulled faces at the imps disguised as cherub frescoes on the ceiling.(1)

Speaking of my master, he wasn't doing much better. He was currently stood beside a large image of a young girl, their drawn and pale faces mirrored across the centuries as they stared out emotionless at the same scene before them. As I looked he threw back the better half of his champagne flute with a face of disdain, no longer bothering to try and maintain dignified sips. Poor guy, this really wasn't his scene. At 16, he continued to impress Westminster with his(2) abilities and power, but he still failed to find any joy in the schmoozing and boozing that has always been at least 78% of politics in any civilisation. He shifted his weight from side to side, pulled a tight smile as a waiter refilled his glass, and tried to look interested in some antique silverware. In a burst of altruistic mercy, I decided to save him.

The songbird perched daintily amongst the crystals of the chandelier swooped down, circled, loop-the-looped for good measure, and settled gracefully upon John Mandrake's shoulder before whistling sweetly.

"What," came a monotoned murmur.

"You could at least pretend to be pleased to see me," I replied.

"I'm never pleased to see you."

"Funny, cause you sure as hell don't seem to want me to leave." A sigh. A clench of the jaw. It was a risky move, throwing shade this early into the conversation, but fuck it. I'd just heard a man refer to a dark skinned adolescent girl draped across some bed sheets as the most romantic painting in the Empire. I was feeling edgy.

"Bartimaeus, was there something you actually needed, or have you just come to ruin my evening further?"

"Harsh, the opposite actually. You looked bored, I thought I could help lighten the mood. Why are we here again?"

Another sigh. "It's the Summer Exhibition. I am here because Prime Minister asked me to be. You are here as my security, as per your charge."

"Yeah yeah, I get all that but... why? Why is the the Prime Minister interested in a load of old paintings? Wasn't there a fire in the Potteries last week?"(3)

"This is just the collection, the new ones are upstairs. It's important for him to show an interest in the arts and culture, especially what with the war."(4)

I watched a woman shriek as a waitress dropped a tray of drinks, spilling them down one side of her dress. Her friend, stood beside her, began shouting at the girl, blaming her clumsiness and ignorance on poor-breeding, her lack of appreciation for fine needlework on having never slept on anything but straw and burlap. It was all rather crude and tasteless, my master detachedly watching from afar as the poor girl's manager came rushing over spewing forth apologies and anxiety.

"If this is arts and culture, you would have loved Rome's circuses," I drawled, rolling my eyes as a man with a bright orange cravat and an even more offensive voice became involved.

...only for them to fall on events taking place in the small ante-room next door. While everyone's attention was focused on crying over spilled champagne, another one of the wait staff fumbled with the lock on one of the tall wooden doors at the far end of the chain of rooms. As I watched, there was a click, the door eased open, and the boy slipped through.

Immediately the songbird was gone. In its place a simple house fly darted off, skidding beneath the door and through into a darker, cooler spiral staircase that mirrored that of the Academy on the other side of the building. Listening to the echoing footsteps I took a gamble and flew upwards through the central atrium, scanning the stairs and balconies as I circled(5), hoping to grab the boy before he disappeared into one of the corridors. When the glass of the skylight approached with no such luck, I swore and made the change into an old favourite.

I have a deeply-held respect for my old friend(6) Aristotle, so, despite the fall from grace of his theory of free-fall, I made sure to crack a few of the flagstones when the gargoyle landed down in the basement, knocking off a further limb or two from the plaster casts displayed there in the process. Stone may not actually drop faster, but it sure looks more impressive. I glimpsed my master on the way down, slamming open the door to the reception rooms and following my downwards direction via the safer route of the stairs. It looked to be a good system, me at the bottom with him blocking off any escape at the rear, so I took up a confident stance at the base of the stairs and waited for the inevitable.

Completely forgetting that between me and my master there was a whole other landing's worth of escape. So, when the waiter darted off down the ground-floor corridor, I admit there was a moment or two where I was stumped. My brief hesitation gave my master the time to catch up, and we met with a crash trying to fit through the same doorway. It wasn't graceful, a small gargoyle and a teenaged boy wrestling down a short flight of stairs and around a corner, but what can you do.

"BARTIMAEUS," thwack, trip, I was suddenly more closely acquainted with the wall(7) than I normally like, "What the HELL is going on?!"

I chose to ignore him as we came up to a slammed door in our faces, wrenching it open and assessing our options. Before us was a small anteroom, three doorways, one archway, through which was a back staircase, two further doors, and finally an exit out to the courtyard. I had about a 14% chance of getting it right so turned back to my master for some kind of tactical huddle, only to find him hunched over clutching his knees.

"Resistance?" He gasped. "The Resistance aren't the only people being pissed off by your government, Mandrake," I snarled, before picking a route at random. The stairs won out for the pure reason of being there and not involving any more time wasted on doors and teenagers.

If the first staircase was designed for luxurious grandeur, this one had "servants" written all over it. Steeper, and more tightly wound, it wasn't exactly easy for the gargoyle's feet and wings to navigate, but the time between summoning and dismissals had been growing longer. I wasn't sure when I'd have the chance to recuperate again, so avoided making a further change in favour of conserving energy. Behind me, my master clattered equally as graceful.

At the bottom, another door, although this time the glass panelling gave a heads up to the darkness on the other side. I flitted through the planes as I entered, hoping for something to reveal itself at least but, unfortunately, nada. Just a storeroom, full of crates of Italian sparkling water and odd boxes of wine for what looked like a canteen at the far end. Shit. I was losing my touch. I considered sending out a pulse, but seeing as nothing about the waiter had suggested any magical involvement so far I decided against it. At this point, I just didn't have the inclination. The waiter could have been from any number of organisations springing up around the country in protest of the government, workers, pacifists, and although I was loathe to admit he could be right, yes, the Resistance. This did seem like some of their more adventurous targets, although I really did hope Kitty had followed my advice.

There was a crash, and my master announced his presence by tripping over a footstool. It was a small relief from my spiralling depression, but the thrill was short-lived.

"Bartimaeus, could you get some light?"

"Yeah, I could."

"Bartimaeus."

Now it was my turn to sigh. I snapped my fingers and a small flame hovered between my master and the Egyptian boy suddenly sat on the arm a sinking, faded red sofa. I watched him warily.

"Well? What now?" my master demanded, straightening his cuffs. "Is there a way out of here, or should we go back up the stairs?"

"No point. Even if he wasn't already halfway across the courtyard by now, he could be in any room, in any department, not to mention halfway down the Thames if he got down to the embankment. How many offices are there here anyway?"

A frustrated groan, "Too many. Taxes, births and deaths, not to mention the archives of both the Academy and Society. He could have been after anything."

"You're right. It doesn't help that he could have come from anywhere this side of the Caspian Sea. Your enemies are growing, Mr. Mandrake."

Silence. He may have looked older, now he'd had a proper haircut, and he acted it too, what with all the authority and honour he attracted with experience and knowledge. His recent promotion made it clear this was set to continue, too. But he was still young, barely halfway through his teens. It would be too much, the stress, the pressure(8) for someone twice his age, and yet he held himself like he was made for the role. I'd seen it before though, and I knew how this ended.

"Nathaniel-"

"No, Bartimaeus, I haven't the energy," he said, running a hand down his face.

"Let's go home."

I didn't bother correcting him. I doubted I'd be seeing home for a long while.

 

* * *

 

 

(1) The usual decorative fare for Somerset House, home of both the Royal Navy and the Royal Academy - two halves of the Empire thrown together across an expanse of neoclassical architecture. The two institutions, and other garbled government offices, were guarded by the old idea of confining spirits within the stonework itself: river gods and hippocampus hiding imps and foliots of varying levels ready to wake at the first sign of threat. Ironically, the biggest immediate threat were the drunken drivers of the Hackney Carriages, whose head office was also nestled somewhere in the building. The labyrinth of long, echoing corridors and winding staircases acted as an effective deterrent for demands of increased pay.

(2) read: my.

(3) The Potteries was a nickname given to an area of slums in North Kensington, so-called because they lay amongst the old clay pits that produced the bricks to build magicians' houses less than a mile south. The authorities had been trying to tackle overcrowding, sanitation, and safety in the area since Gladstone's time. And by 'trying to tackle' I mean 'hoping it would go away'.

(4) See what I mean?

(5) Tricky, as the coral-coloured walls blended perfectly with the beige stonework to form a murky pinky-brown mess not unlike...well, nothing pleasant.

(6) Loosest terms, of course.

(7) Blue, this time, far more welcome than the pink.

(8) Not to mention the hormones.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Somerset House is an amalgamation of its past and its present, with the Royal Academy of the Arts and the Courtauld Gallery, who both occupy/ied the same space, merged into one.  
> \- Bar at the Folies-Bergère - Manet, Nevermore - Gauguin, and Samuel Courtauld's silverware collection are the objects referenced. And yes, Nevermore was once voted "the most romantic painting in the UK."  
> \- The Potteries was a real slum, not-so-coincidentally in near enough the exact same spot as the Lancaster West Estate where Grenfell Tower is located. At the time of writing, the horrific tragedy was just a week ago. If you are unable to donate to the relief, I implore you to please Stay Angry and continue to demand answers.  
> \- Finally, this was at least 82% inspired by research for the very exciting project that Lucy and I have been working on, wappingtowestminster.tumblr.com - if you liked this, I hope you will like it too.


End file.
